David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

Faced with yet another choice, Haern glanced left, then right. The hallway ended with sharp turns at either way. He didn’t have the slightest clue where he was within the temple complex. One way might lead out. The other might lead further in. He decided to go right, and if it didn’t look promising, he’d hurry the other way.

It turned out the way was correct, but it still was far from promising. Looming before him was the great open chamber of worship. The statue of Karak towered before him, still intimidating even in profile. The purple fires burned at his feet, the only light visible. Shadows danced across the pews. Two men knelt in prayer before their altar. A third slowly circled the room, softly singing something more akin to a funeral dirge than a worship hymn. His hands were lifted to the ceiling and his eyes half-closed.

The two praying he might sneak past, but the circling priest was another matter. Haern leaned back into the hallway, knowing his time to escape was fleeting. He couldn’t let three men stop him. He was the former son of Thren Felhorn. He wouldn’t let three-thousand men stop him.

“Keep circling,” Haern whispered. When the priest was on the opposite side of the room, Haern ran as fast as he could, his upper body crouched down. The motion made his legs ache and his back twinge, but he recited a mental litany against pain taught him by one of his tutors. When he was halfway to the first row of pews, one of the praying men leaned back and shouted in a twisted cry of pain and triumph.

Haern’s instinct was to freeze but he didn’t obey it. That was something else he’d long ago been trained to ignore. He rolled behind the first row then spun about to look. One priest stood before the statue, a knife in hand. Blood spilled from his other arm, his severed hand lying on the smooth obsidian altar. Haern’s eyes locked upon the knife. It was a bit ornate, no doubt intended for sacrifice instead of battle, but it would do.

The other praying priest stood and wrapped his arms around the bleeding man. The third continued his circling and singing as if nothing unusual were happening.

“Do not fight the pain,” the unwounded one said. “In darkness we bleed to prevent the darkness spreading to others. We must give all to defy the chaos of this world. Your pain is nothing compared to the suffering of thousands.”

Haern crawled along the right side of the pews. Time was running out. The hallway leading to the center aisle of the pews clearly looked like a way out, but if he didn’t reach it before the circling priest came up behind him, he’d be spotted.

“Karak be praised!” shouted the first priest. Haern felt his stomach tighten at another cry of pain. He didn’t dare look, but it sounded like one of them was sobbing. The dire hymn continued in its low, maniacal consistency.

At last Haern was at the final row. He lowered himself to the ground, looking for the feet of the circling priest. Once he was on the opposite yet again, Haern ran toward the center.

He immediately fled when he saw what awaited him: two priests leaning against the door, their heads bowed and their arms crossed. He couldn’t see their eyes in the split-second before he rolled to the other row of pews. Their hoods were pulled low. They might be asleep…or they might have spotted his roll.

No shouts of warning came from the doors. He had gone unnoticed.

“Thanks, Ashhur,” he whispered under his breath. There was no way he could sneak past the two of them, nor could he subdue them with his bare hands. Only one option remained.

He made his way back toward the front. The bleeding priest had stopped crying, instead sucking in loud, labored breaths. The other had begun reciting a series of scriptures that cooled Haern’s blood.

“Only in death is life reborn. Only in blood is sin denied. Only in darkness is the world saved. Only in absolute emptiness is there order. Praise be to Karak.”

“Praise be,” the other priest stammered.

The priest circling had switched hymns, his voice deepening and the words slowing. Haern couldn’t understand them, but the song gave him the shivers. The two priests up front weren’t helping, either. Judging by the song, the man was near the door. Time was short.

Haern looked around the pew to the statue. The first priest had placed the dagger upon the altar, its hilt and blade covered with blood. Beside it was a severed hand. The other was clutching the wounded priest, repeating his scriptures while blood seeped into the bandages wrapped around the stump.

“Forgive me my theft,” the wounded priest murmured, his skin pale and his eyes rolled back into his head. His words mingled with the scriptures, blending in perfect harmony. “Forgive me of my theft, Lord. Wounded I enter, but enter I will.”

“Only in blood is sin denied.”

“Forgive me my theft, Lord. Whole I sinned, but wounded I enter.”

“Only in darkness is this world saved.”

“Forgive me my theft, Lord. I deny myself the chaos.”

“Only in absolute emptiness is there order,” the two repeated as one.

Haern chose that moment to strike. He kicked the first behind the knee, his head smacking the altar on the way down. Planting his feet firm, Haern rammed his body against the other, elbowing the bloody stump. The priest cried out, staggering backward on weak legs.

Giving neither time to respond, Haern scooped up the dagger, spun, and slashed open the first priest’s throat. As his body spasmed, he turned to the other and lunged. The dagger pierced the man’s chest.

“Only in blood,” the priest whispered with his dying breath.

A bolt of shadow struck Haern’s side. He cried out, stunned by the immense pain. It felt like every nerve in the area was firing off sensations of pain. Rolling to avoid the next, Haern clutched the dagger with both hands. The hilt was slick with blood, and he might lose it if he wasn’t careful.

“Killed amid worship!” the third priest shouted, his deep voice booming in the great room. “You will suffer for such blasphemy!”

Two more bolts of shadow flung from the priest’s hands, splintering wood and cracking stone where they struck. Haern ran between the pews, using their wood for cover. The priest was halfway down the center aisle. Close enough. Haern stepped onto a pew and leapt with all his strength. His body stretched, the dagger lashing out. The priest, stunned by the sudden assault, tried to ward himself. The spell died on his lips as the dagger slashed his face.

Then their bodies collided. Haern screamed as his shoulder rammed the priest’s chest, wrenching his whole body violently. He spun and landed awkwardly on a pew, his feet sticking into the air and his stomach pressed against the seat. The priest fared better, collapsing into a sitting position on the pew.

“Suffer!” the priest shouted. The word carried power with it. Haern rolled to the floor, his mind white with pain. His wounds from the Lion raged in anger. Blood soaked his clothing, some his, some not. He felt the dagger slipping from his weakened hand.

“You cannot resist Karak’s power,” the priest said, reaching down to take away the dagger. “How such a simple boy could kill two of his…”

Haern put a leg underneath him and pushed, shoving him into the priest’s lap. The dagger twirled and stabbed backward. The man’s hands clawed about him, flailing as if in search of a hug. Haern twisted the blade and then yanked it out. Blood shot across the front of his shirt.

“Karak is nothing to me,” Haern said, feeling a sick joy at denying the man’s dark god even as he died.

He had no time, though. The two priests had come running down the long entryway. Unlike the other three, they were not caught unaware. Dark magic crackled around their fingertips as they summoned the might of their god.